


think of what we could do (together)

by sapphicpanic



Category: Broadway RPF, Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked RPF
Genre: F/F, wicked era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 05:57:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17258807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicpanic/pseuds/sapphicpanic
Summary: maybe it didn't all end that fateful july.





	think of what we could do (together)

**Author's Note:**

> sooooo.... i very recently got sucked into the angst-world that is chenzel, and i'm um, hehe, broken. so i decided to pick up a pen (or a laptop) and write whatever mess this is. i don't really know exactly where this is going, if i'm being honest, and i never follow through on anything, but i guess this will help with my new years resolution. so we'll see!
> 
> this fandom is also dead. but whatever. the world needs more chenzel fanfic, even if it's shitty (like mine).
> 
> i haven't written fanfiction since i was a lot younger and had a giant lesbian obsession with the entire us women's soccer team, so please be gentle with me :) hope the three (3) people who still keep up with this tag enjoy.
> 
> title from ‘defying gravity.’ (obviously)
> 
> (this is unbetaed as well, so all mistakes are mine.)

—

_but you're cold and i burn_

_i guess i'll never learn_

_cause i stay another hour or two_

(settle down, the 1975)

_—_

 

_may, 2004._

_new york city._

“Taye gets back today.”

Kristin glances up from the counter to stare at the woman opposite her. The sight of Idina like this – hair a mess (both from sleep and from the work of Kristin’s own hands, tugging at the strands while Idina’s head was between her thighs), bare faced, and body clad only in Kristin’s worn, oversized OCU pajama shirt and white panties – always sets something deep and low in Kristin’s gut. Mornings like these are reminders to Kristin of what they could be. What they should be.

Kristin realizes she must have zoned out for a minute or two, because Idina is looking at her intently, an amused smile on her face.

“Did you even get any of that, Kristi?” Idina teases. “Or were you too busy staring?”

Kristin rolls her eyes, caught. “You wish, honey.”

Idina just grins, and hops off the barstool she’s sitting on to come around the counter and wrap her arms around the smaller girl, pressing a gentle kiss to Kristin’s cheek. “Anyways, as I was saying, Taye gets back today. I gotta leave around noon to meet him at JFK.” Idina says casually, running her fingers mindlessly through Kristin’s gentle curls. “Maybe earlier, though, ‘cause I still need to stop by my place to clean up.”

Kristin tenses in Idina's arms involuntarily. Kristin doesn’t need to dig deep into her conscience to know that what they’re doing, what they  _have_  been doing for the past year, is wrong. Oh, she knows. But sometimes, it’s easy to let the details of the matter slip away – that Idina is a married woman and her husband is on a plane back to New York that’s landing in all but a few hours – when Idina has been at her place all week since he left. In Kristin’s bed, in Kristin’s kitchen, in Kristin's space. Idina seeps into every aspect of Kristin's very being, and  _damn it,_  she’s not strong enough for this.

Idina nudges her. “Kristi?”

Kristin doesn’t have to turn around to know that Idina’s staring again.

“Is everything okay?”

Kristin shifts in Idina’s arms to face her, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m good. Don’t worry about me,” Kristin says, untangling herself from Idina's grasp, a weak attempt at distancing herself. Protecting herself.

(Kristin curses her body’s immediate craving for Idina’s own.)

An uneasy silence falls over the kitchen, and Kristin feels a sudden urge to do something with her hands. Spotting the dirty dishes in her sink, ignored from their time together this week, Kristin busies herself with loading the pile into her dishwasher. As Kristin begins rinsing out a bowl, sticky with the remnants of last night’s rocky road ice cream, Idina moves to help, but Kristen just waves her off. “What kind of good, Southern hostess would I be, letting my guest help me clean up?” Kristin jokes, trying to ease some of the thick tension in the room. Idina laughs, but the sound seems to die in her throat before it can even begin. (They both know that Idina’s not just some guest in Kristin’s apartment. Not here, where Idina’s toothbrush has a permanent spot next to Kristin’s in the master bathroom. Where a pile of Idina’s clothes are folded, tucked safely away in a corner of Kristin’s dresser drawer. Where Idina’s scent is all over the pillows on her designated side of Kristin’s bed. No, she’s not a guest. Not here.)

Kristin’s kitchen falls silent once again, save for the muffled sounds of the city twelve stories down and the intermittent rattling of dishes and running water. Idina has returned to her place on the barstool, and Kristin continues washing the dishes. Idina’s stare bores into her back.

Ignoring Idina and the questions Kristin knows are at the tip of the other girl’s tongue, Kristin’s eyes flicker briefly towards the oven clock.  _9:42._  They have an hour and a half, tops; the ball was in Kristin’s court for her to decide what they would do with that time.

(After all, it’s not as if they haven’t done more in less time.)

Kristin could easily tell Idina to leave, right then and there. Make up some shitty excuse about having to “run some errands.” (Idina would see right through it, but Kristin’s never been any good at lying to Idina, anyways.)

Kristin tries. She really does. But when she stops the faucet and opens her mouth to speak, the wrong words slip out before she can even think twice.

“Bedroom?”

Idina quirks an eyebrow and crosses her arms. Her defenses are going up. “Are you sure? Seemed like you were just about ready to kick me out a second ago.”

Kristin laughs, in spite of herself and the situation. She forgets how well Idina can read her, sometimes.  _No point in stopping now._  

Slowly, Kristin makes her way around the marble countertop, coming to a stop behind Idina’s barstool. Their heights even out when Idina’s sitting down, and Kristin doesn’t need to stand on her tiptoes to reach Idina’s ear.

“Come to bed, Dee,” Kristin breathes, sending an involuntary shiver down Idina’s spine. “I’m sure.”

Though her body says different, Idina ignores Kristin, so Kristin pushes a little more. Trailing her mouth down the soft plane of Idina’s neck, Kristin sucks gently at the tender patch of skin below Idina’s ear. Not hard enough to leave a mark (Kristin wouldn’t dare), but with just enough pressure to elicit a soft moan from Idina. Instinctively, Idina turns her head to capture Kristin’s lips in a heated kiss. After nearly a year of constant practice, their lips meld together like second nature, but the pressure of Idina’s lips on her own is still enough to send Kristin reeling, her legs almost giving out from beneath her. Idina snakes a steadying arm around her waist and pulls Kristin’s small frame towards her chest, deepening the kiss. Idina tastes like freshly brewed coffee and toothpaste, and Kristin can’t get enough.

_Is this ever going to be enough?_ Echoes through the back of Kristin’s mind.

But Idina’s doing something  _criminal_ with her tongue and her hands are all over Kristin’s body, so she pushes the thought away, and the thought disappears completely as Idina’s fingers push aside the fabric of her panties to slip easily into slick, wet heat.

When Kristin comes with three of Idina’s fingers inside her and Idina’s mouth on her clit, Kristin tells herself it’s enough.

When Kristin hears her apartment door click softly shut, and all that’s left of their week together is Idina’s scent in her sheets and her taste in Kristin’s mouth, Kristin tells herself it’s enough.

_It's enough it's enough it's enough it's enough._

 

(It’s not.)

 


End file.
